The Lost Rose
by Transhumandream
Summary: Set between Journey's End and The Eleventh Hour. Distraught at being separated from Rose once again, the Doctor deals with his memories in the wake of his new regeneration.


**A/N: Hello. This story idea came to me as I was working on the outline to a much bigger story. I was going over the series 4 and 5 episodes and wondered what the Doctor would have been thinking about between Journey's End and The Eleventh Hour. If you enjoy, remember to drop a review or a favorite. This is one of my first forays into fan fiction, so some constructive criticism would be much appreciated. Thanks.**

**Doctor Who and any characters or properties associated with it do not belong to me. This work was created purely for enjoyment and not for any monetary benefit. No copyright infringement is intended.**

The Doctor picked himself off of the incredibly messy floor to find the TARDIS in utter chaos. His regeneration had caused more damage than he had anticipated. Cables dangled from the ceiling, sparks flew from the control panel, and destroyed bits of his beloved box littered the floor as the TARDIS groaned in anger and pain. "I know old girl. I'm sorry. You know as well as I do that you're the only safe place I can regenerate. I'm too vulnerable afterwards." The TARDIS groaned back in annoyance but also in understanding. The Doctor patted the still sparking control panel and began walking towards his bedroom. He needed a mirror. For once, he wanted to be the first person to see his new face. Rose would have smiled at that. He missed her smile. Sometimes it was big and genuine, sometimes with that tongue-in-teeth cockiness that was so her. It was a smile he would never see again.

No, he was not going there. Thinking of Rose hurt. It would always hurt, though he was getting better at hiding it. Occasionally, when he was alone, he would allow himself to become lost in his memories of her; her laugh, her kindness, her impossible ability to make him feel like he was worth something. That he was worth anything. He knew what he was. He was a monster, the destroyer of worlds, the oncoming storm, the last of the Time Lords. She hadn't seen him as that though. She knew everything he had done, everything he was, and still she refused to see sense and look at him with anything but love and affection. And now she was gone, trapped in her parallel world with his clone.

As much as he was sure he had done the right thing, leaving her there with his metacrisis, a man that was as dark and lost as he had been, but a man who had needed her and could grow old with her, he couldn't stop missing her. She had been his reason to fight, his reason to think that maybe, just maybe, he was better that the darkness that surrounded everything he was. And now she was gone and he was alone once again.

The Doctor stalked through the corridors searching for his room. The TARDIS normally would have moved it close to where he currently was, but she was too weak to do anything more than regenerate herself and keep them away from prying eyes in the Time Vortex. Finally, the Doctor found the room with the number 10 (he would have to change that soon) on its door. The door was stuck fast and he had to put his shoulder into it to force it open. He stumbled in to his room and found it in nearly as much disarray as the console room. He shook his head at the four-poster bed and the dresser absolutely covered in photographs. They were remnants of a bygone age and a forgotten man. He would have to get rid of those soon.

Slowly and with extra effort to keep his disoriented self in balance, he made his way to the bath that adjoined his room. He flicked the lights on and, thankful that they still worked, and took in his new appearance. His side burns and big hair were gone, replaced by long, still not ginger, brown hair and a rather noticeable chin. His eyebrows were all but gone, and his eyes were still brown, although noticeably less warm than they had been the last time. They were hurt eyes, and he was fairly certain he knew where they came from. As always, his emotions and self-image tended to affect how his new self looked when the regeneration process was finished. He was still young, but gone was his certainty of himself. He looked exactly as he felt: timid and alone.

The Doctor scratched the back of his head and left his room. He needed to sleep soon. He knew that the regeneration would require him to lose consciousness in order to complete its final stages, but he couldn't sleep in there. The cheerfulness of the room didn't fit him anymore, and admittedly, there was another place he would much rather be anyway. He made his way down the corridor, knowing that his destination couldn't be far from his own bedroom.

He found the room he was looking for just two doors down. The TARDIS had kept the room around afterwards, a fact that he was unendingly grateful for. The ship really was too good to him, considering all the strife he put her through on a daily basis. He twisted the door handle and entered the all pink bedroom. Rose had dearly loved the color, a fact that the TARDIS gleefully picked up on and had turned into a theme. The Doctor didn't care about the fact that Rose hadn't slept in there in quite some time, or that the room hadn't changed in all the times he had been in there. He just wanted to be close to anything that reminded him of her. He sat down on her bed, his burned clothes clashing with the clean atmosphere of the room, and grabbed for the pictures she kept on her nightstand.

The first was one of their classics: Jack, Rose, and his Ninth self standing in front of the TARDIS's doors. He had still been wearing that hard expression he had been so fond of back then, even though he remembered that time being relatively happy. Jack of course, ever the charmer, had a solid grin plastered across his face, with his arm around both Rose and Nine. Rose had her trademark tongue-in-teeth grin, her face showing her emotions more clearly than his had ever been able to. He set the photo down carefully and picked up the other that sat beside it. It was smaller, kept inside a more expensive frame. It was of Rose and his most recent self. He was standing behind her, his arms wrapped around her middle, kissing her cheek while she laughed in surprise. At the moment the photo was taken, he didn't think he could have ever been happier in his life. Here was this incredible, brilliant woman, the woman he loved, incased in his arms for what would have been one of the last times. Canary Warf had happened only a week after the photo, he recalled.

Tears started to form in the corner of the Doctor's eyes as set he the photo down and leaned back on Rose's bed. They would never see one another again and it was his fault. Oh, if she were here, she would insist that it wasn't. She would tell him that things happen, that he couldn't blame himself for every bad or unfortunate thing in the universe. Then she would have lain down next to him and waited for the regeneration process to end, tethering him to the universe with the knowledge that they were secure in each other's arms. But she wasn't here. She would never be here again, and this time, it was completely his fault.

The Doctor cringed as a wave of pain rolled through his stomach. Huon energy escaped his lips, signaling the start of his final stage of regeneration. He shut his eyes and let the change happen, knowing full well that, while it would never lessen the pain, it at least gave him something to focus on other than the memories of his lost Rose.


End file.
